


When in doutb, go for the Kings

by Reyavie



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Dragon Age: Inquisition, Dragon Age: Origins, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe, F/M, Friendship, crack story, god knows what the author was thinking, secret santa gift, there is no real need to know dragon age to read this but it is advisable, wardens do all the things
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-01-28
Updated: 2018-01-28
Packaged: 2019-03-10 13:58:47
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,570
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13502999
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Reyavie/pseuds/Reyavie
Summary: Or how the Grey Wardens think they should fix everything, everywhere. What happens when the Commander of the Grey gets dumped by an Eluvian on a very complicated world. Good things, I swear.Part of a secret santa exchange for the year of 2017.





	When in doutb, go for the Kings

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Josie Lange](https://archiveofourown.org/gifts?recipient=Josie+Lange).



> This was written as a gift for Josie over at FFNET. Her character, Lhiannon Amell, is here depicted and a bit brokenly, I might add. I vividly advise you to read her story because it is a very interesting, well-written piece of fiction but it is not necessary to understand what's going on here. This piece is all about playing in Westeros. As a crack text, I did not bother with timelines and waved off most details.

**xxxXXXxxx**

The first time they meet her, it is after a particularly complicated storm. Their castle is a marvel, leaning on old magic to slip in and out of the unaware eye before they can be sure of what stands before them. Storms such as this, more hail than snow, blanket the old structure, keep them closer to home than they expect and hide the old pathways. Those have to be cleaned, they know, kept safe and clear for the people who will come later on.

They expect snow. They expect wild animals searching for the storm. They expect what is common and normal, their every day life in an unending pattern.

Howland is their Lord, a son of the swamps, of the Neck and should have known better. The only consistent thing about magic is the fact that it is as inconsistent as the Old Gods themselves are.

The scene before them appears from virtually nowhere he can discern. There is a clearing where only trees once stood, a large decorated mirror bound by clear red wood and a pile of bodies of some sort of supernatural creature he cannot – and does not wish to – name. Nightmare, he would deem it, something out of the old stories old Nan used to tell during his days in Winterfell.

The strange artefact raises above the bloodied earth, brimming with unknown magic over the monsters with no name and the woman standing in the middle. Armored in a manner only the Mormont women dare to, a shining staff on one hand and a sword sheathed against her waist, she stands proudly. Everything makes her seem like an exiled Queen out of legends.

The long features of her face, the dark hair coupled with pale skin paint an image he has not seen for over fifteen years. Not even the view of her brown eyes – too dark in comparison to the ones in his memory – detract from the overall feeling.

“Lyanna?”

The woman frowns deeply, gauntleted fingers tightening around the staff which towers above her and shines brighter than any jewelry.

“I most certainly am not. “

Howland is an old warrior, veteran of two wars and smack deep in the middle of a third. He truly has no idea why he takes a step back when her eyes narrow. The Lyanna in his memories would never attack _him_. The Lyanna who was his friend cared for him, fought for him, died away in a sunny land in front of his eyes.

“It is Lhiannon,” the woman informs bluntly, lowering her weapon. The point is sharp and topped with a rough jewel. Howland swears flames lick its surface under his gaze. “Though I vastly prefer Warden.”

Everything steadily worsens from then on.

**xxxXXXxxx**

“You mean to tell me this country is at war with itself and divided among five kings who truly have no idea what they are doing?”

_And she looks like part of a family of traitors. Let’s not forget that_.

There is a long moment as the Lady breathes deeply, resting her forehead against her steepled fingers. Howland thinks he hears her comment about her horrible disgusting luck and how some man is going to laugh himself silly when he hears about her current situation, never mind his utter incapability of doing so on a regular basis. The last piece might be his mind playing tricks on him.

“I am not sure your _Others_ are similar to darkspawn but if they continue south, the Eluvian will be destroyed.” Her fingers tap lightly against her chin as their owner absently speaks nonsense. “I cannot accept that. The times moves differently on either side of the Eluvian. It will take some time for my husband to open the door.”

A pause. Her voice falls silent and her body seems to freeze in the cold morning breeze.

“I suppose I can try to fix this mess.”

He laughs.

She doesn’t.

When he stares at her eyes, he sees Lyanna again, young and strong, with a sedate smile on her face which promised danger. As he blinks, the mirage disappears. He sees only Lhiannon, the strange warrior woman, older than Lyanna had ever been, features which seem sculpted in marble, hard and strong as they are. She seems older than half the people in his Keep combined.

He prays she was joking even as he is terribly certain she was not.

**xxxXXXxxx**

They go for the Kings.

Not with careful consideration, not with plans and lost time. The Warden – _it is warden, Commander or, if you must, Amell. Anything else and I will ignore you_ – zeroes in on her target and carefully sidesteps the obstacles. She doesn’t know anything about the land but then again, who knows about her? About the way her hands glow and people fall in front of her unconscious? About her staff, which is large and unwieldy and yet, apparently more powerful than any Valyrian blade. He asks her about it, about her gifts – and doesn’t she balk when the word gift is used – about the manner she fights, all of it carefully constructed violence.

She’s a mage, she explains as if it is obvious. A good one, an enchanter, the leader of her army. Fire and air, an explosive control so wonderful it makes him wonder why creatures like her don’t rule her world. Lhiannon’s lips twist when he comments that, a prelude to the first laughter he hears from her. _You don’t want that_ , she informs him, _it is never a good idea to give power to those who hunger for it._

She scares him at times, this odd Commander with his dead friend’s face.

Stannis is the first. Lhiannon says honorable people are the easiest to find because they follow straight rules. Her husband taught her this notion and he is possibly the best Commander she has ever had the pleasure to face.

From the stories she tells, her husband is also incredibly dangerous, resourceful and the old gods help him, if he comes to Westeros. One Warden is apparently more than he can deal with.

Still, the eldest Baratheon is the first. The red woman is killed quickly, all the while counseling him over the woman’s body _never to trust a mage with religious leanings_ while the Queen and Princess are carefully stored away. One away from the other, of course because, also according to the Warden, _that woman is a danger to herself and others. I won’t have a girl fear what she is_ , Gods above, it feels like Amell believes him to be a child who she must guide to see the truth of the world.

The would-be King attempts to face her then, of course. The duel between them is quick; almost brutally so. No magic is used but there is a shining blade in her hand, wielded with careful bloody precision. It breaks the would-be Lightbringer into pieces easily in front of a mostly confused audience.

“Well. I won. Do you not have the right of Conquest in these lands?”

They do.

Stannis is throw into the deepest dungeon of his castle and Renly soon follows.

“How did you even get him?”

“Peacocks are all the same, no matter the world you come from,” she tells him as if the sentence explains anything at all, “Show them a shiny thing and they’ll follow like a toddler. I just kidnapped his boytoy.”

Gods help him.

The Northern one, she slaps upside the head. _You are a child_ , she tells him loudly, ignoring his mother’s tortured eyes locked onto her familiar features, _you are a child and you need to protect your kingdom. Kill your enemies later, boy, because no amount of blood will bring your family to life_. _I know_.

Howland cannot doubt she does. He also does not want to ask her how she does. There’s a glimpse of something _broken_ behind those words; a sorrow so deep it would shatter kingdoms. He knows better than to rip someone’s wounds open. Besides, again, she’s dangerous and he wants to live to see his grandchildren.

Lhiannon leaves the Lannisters for last.

“Not for any special reason,” Lhiannon comments casually as they ride closer to the capital. She sits straight in her horse, gauntleted fingers carefully entwined in front of her. Her eyes are dark pools, unfathomable and dangerous as they run through the walls. Up and down, up and down, lingering in weak spots and damaged details. “That moment when they think they almost won? That’s when they are the weakest. It is just practical to have them wait.”

Gods, she scares him.

“Who will rule when they’re done?” Howland asks her.

Her eyes turn to him.

His first instinct is to make way towards the Wall and then through it.

“I’m cleaning up the house, not choosing the owner,” Lhiannon informs him bluntly, lips press together as if she is _disappointed_ in him. “Not again. You will call the Lords and have them show their case. It’s called a Landsmeet. You’ll find it solves wonderful things.”

She truly horribly scares him.

It is why the Lord forgoes asking her exactly how she managed to place Asha Greyjoy as the Queen of the Iron Islands. There is no lack of rumors over the event, all of them more magnificent than the one before, and none of them actually traces back to the mage but Howland knows, he just _knows_ it is her doing anyway.

**xxxXXXxxx**

 

“Typical.”

It is the only comment the Warden makes when the Others come through what remains of the Wall. Gasps of fear are heard behind them, shivers which should be of the cold alone show no man or woman is untouched. None bar her, with her simple comment and narrowed eyes. Howland half feels like grasping her elbow. Would he gain some of her strength that way?

“You seem calm,” he comments instead.

“I am the Commander of the Grey of Ferelden. It is my job to seem calm.” Her eyes turn to him, dark and placid. If she is scared, he truly cannot read that in their depths. Is she bluffing when she says she’s afraid or when she looks like that, calm and unruffled like the earth beneath their feet? Lhiannon grasps his shoulder instead of answering; a sudden and brief gesture before she faces the undead crowd descending the mountains. Her confidence seems unshakable. “Keep faith, Howland. We have a lot of work in front of us.”

Her fingers trail down the side of the eluvian. She has refused to walk away from it since the beginning of the invasion, keeping it within her line of sight at all waking moments. That last touch is a fond farewell before her weapons are held tightly in her hands and she takes the lead.

“Come on, people. Time to defend your homes.”

And Lhiannon, who is not a Stark or a Reed or even of that bloody _world_ walks forward without hesitation, a spell on the tip of her tongue and her bravery, gods above, how brave can one be?

They follow. Who would be able to stay behind in face of such example?

The two armies clash among the debris of what had once been the wall. Piles of snow make them stumble at every step, sharp underneath their boots as they clash against the undead. Those do not fear or feel the cold, Howland understands, but that does not mean it is easier for them to attack in uneven ground. It forces confrontation on the living’s terms, for once. Piles of wood that had been carefully assembled in the hours before the attack now they shine in the long night, signaling the archers to follow with bright arrows.

The world focuses for him, as it always does. The enemy in front of you, your companions at your back. His body hurts, aches spread like warmth through muscle, sinew and bone and he keeps moving. There is no other option.

“Assemble, don’t let them divide us,” Lhiannon’s voice crashes through the air like lightning. Rings of fire rush around living bodies, caressing their bodies in their protection before eating away at their enemies. “Come on, boys. Forward. We can do this.”

While she keeps moving, he’ll follow. That’s all he can think in the middle of battle. The King might scream and the Queen might crash her dragons onto the mountains, for all he cares. Lhiannon is a Commander, The Commander, the _Warden_ and even though he cannot comprehend the weight of the title, he understands she can get them through this. And this is how the moments pass for him, one endless instant after the other until.

_Until._

The night explodes in color. Lights chase the shadows away, they crawl over the fighting forms and burn eyes which had been accustomed to a neverending night.

A small absent part of his mind identifies its origin as the Eluvian.

It does not bother with identifying the _voices_.

“If she hadn’t been thrown into the middle of a fucking battle, I’d be surprised. You!” There’s a pause as Howland cuts off a walker’s head and arm in one fell swoop. He presumes the male voice is inappropriately using this time to bother a warrior. “Where’s the Commander?”

“She might not be a Commander here, Loghain.”

“We are speaking of my wife. _Of course she is a Commander_. Lhiannon!”

Said woman stops in front of him. There is a flash of confusion, a brief of hesitation and then a grin, wider than anything he had ever seen from her. The formerly dead wooden mirror – door, eluvian, _whatever it is_ – is now lit up like the stars themselves, surrounded in shimmering currents of a magic he cannot claim to comprehend. Her movements halt in response, her sword through one of the creatures, head raised above the commotion and Howland has to keep to her back because the woman apparently forgot they are in the _middle of a battle_!

She doesn’t seem to care.

“Lhiannon!” The male voice repeats.

The Lord of the Neck spends the entirety of three seconds silently cursing whoever it is before smashing a walker with the pommel of his blade. “Gods damn you, Lhiannon,” he yells over the battle uproar. “Pay attention!”

“They’re here, Howland!” She responds uselessly. “Thank the Maker, they’re here. We’ll be alright now.”

What misguided optimism. What are few more people manage that an entire army is not? He spots a flash of red hair, eyes which are golden and more dangerous than any Targaryen and their leader, running through the enemies like they are made of paper. A man, perhaps younger than him, perhaps not, covered in blue armored with the enameled griffon she also carries. But they are few and far in between; a drop in the middle of an undead ocean.

The _three_ people run to them, encompass them in their midst, cover all flanks until it seems like the cohesive unit will not allow anyone to pass.

“Seriously, Commander.” There is a staff similar to Lhiannon’s on the hands of the golden-eyed woman. It is slightly less striking than the fact that she is nearly naked in freezing temperatures. “How unlucky must you be that you get onto the wrong eluvian and into a war?”

“I’m a mage warden, Morrigan. You tell me.” Her sarcasm is belied by a wide grin. “Is everyone else safe?”

The redhead rushes forward, stabs two walkers consecutively with flaming arrows before using them to blind her next opponent. All this with a graciousness he has not seen outside of a ballroom and a ruthlessness that, quite frankly, is more disturbing than the Night King. “As much as possible considering the situation. The Inquisitor is expecting us.”

“Then we should move.”

Lhiannon and the strange man share a look.

It is a heavy one.

No words are needed.

“We will look after your pet, Warden,” the so-called Morrigan affirms. “Go finish whatever this is.”

Howland would complain about the nomenclature – and the stupid action he knows Lhiannon is about to undertake – but the golden-eyed woman chooses that moment to turn into a spider and he finds he cannot do anything about it that doesn’t involve incoherent screaming.

Lhiannon takes it as a signal. The mage runs towards the new wave of approaching enemies in a sudden move and leaves them behind without a second glance. There is no hesitation in her. Her wands gesture widely left and right as she runs decisively, commanding waves of fire and lightning onto their enemies. Only the man follows her, catching the stragglers before they reach her, making sure the insane run is not nipped before it can reach its target.

_Go for the Kings,_ she had told him _, always go for the Kings._

Not even the Night King would have expected such a stupid, moronic, _suicidal_ method.

Howland briefly realizes that is why he does not even bother to defend himself. The King simply stands, confident in its magical immortality with his weapon at the ready while the woman makes her way to him. None would dare to raise steel against such a creature.

It is probably why she doesn’t.

“You threw a fireball at the Night King.”

Lhiannon’s smiling when she makes her way back through the countless walker bodies. Wider, even, the façade of Warden-Commander completely placed aside as she relaxes onto her companion’s hold – still staring, still impassive and very much marking his territory. As if the Lord was not married and happily so. As if living with Lhiannon for nearly a year had not aged him before time.

The mere idea.

Simply no.

“I was certainly not going to invite him for tea, Howland.”

“You burned him into a crisp. And your friend is a spider.”

“Temporarily. She does that.” Her lips touch the man’s face very lightly. “Loghain, my love, is Morrigan done?”

“A couple of minutes more.”

They exchange another long look. There is the touch of experience between them, the sort of understanding that comes after spending long years in each other’s presence until every gesture and every glance can speak a thousand words. Loghain nods curtly, touches his forehead to hers for the swiftest of moments before walking away. Not far and never out of her eyesight.

“Howland.”

Lhiannon’s hand rests upon his shoulder.

“You scared me half to death during these months, woman,” Howland confesses.

The Warden smiles once more. She has not stopped since the group’s arrival, he realizes. It is a lovely smile, bright and beautiful. It does not remind him of his friends – not Lyanna, not Ned, not even Brandon. It is wholly hers.

“Take care of the Wolf,” she counsels calmly. “He’s an honorable fool. If he’s anything like my King, he will send you incomprehensible requests every month or so. Learn to say no.”

_You should stay_ , he almost says. She fixed this, fixed this, fixed them. She could do so much more in a peaceful world.

“No counsel about the Dragon Queen?”

He does not speak. This is not her home. That one lays beyond the foreign mirror, hidden by gleaming magic and away from his reach.

“Poison if she goes insane. Trust her if she doesn’t.”

“You still scare me.”

The woman does not bother to hide her amusement. “That is the other half of my job.”

He expects her to turn and leave. Forget that this happened – the Gods know she probably has enough nightmares to feed her nights for a long time. Instead, her arms reach around him, uncomfortable armor clashing against his and the warmth of a comrade he had been missing for a very long time.

“You be careful, you hear me?” Lhiannon whispers into his ear. “And I know which Eluvian is yours now. Keep it safe. I’ll visit when I have the time.”

He finds his arms around her waist and no words to disturb this moment.

“Try not to welcome me with a war next time,” she adds.

Laughter echoes through his body, through the air around him, never mind the battlefield. When he sees her eyes, he knows a little of that happiness is thanks to him as well.

“You have now ruined my idea. I will find a less appropriate one.”

The black-haired man interrupts them. His hand is outstretched to her; his attention solely on her form. Nothing else matters.

“Well. That is my call.” That could almost be called hesitation, the way the woman pulls away from him to take hold of Loghain’s hand but still stares around her, at the dying battleground. It is unfair to not see the good she brought. It truly is. “See you when I see you.”

A last glance and Lhiannon follows her husband and friends through the magical item. The magic shimmers one last time, pulses like a heartbeat before fading into nothing. It is… upsetting, he finds. Saddening, even. Like losing a cherished friend for the countless time.

Still, the Warden said she would come back. Howland cannot see her lying over something so simple.

“My Lord?”

His soldiers stare bemused at the Eluvian and then, at their Lord, who seems unwilling to step away just yet. It makes the goodbye more permanent that way.

“My Lord. What do we do now?”

He shrugs.

“We go for the King. What else?”


End file.
